Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“Donald Clark got himself shot in a federal courthouse.”

“Art, I just gave you an affirmative response to your question.”

“They suspect a black hit lady called Ma Barker.”

“Art, you’re not listening. I just heard it all from Dino.”

“Why didn’t you say so? Ma Barker is one slick lady,” Art said.

“You know what her alibi is? Twelve members of her church choir and her Reverend.”

“How do you know all this stuff? It just happened.”

“Art, are you at home?”

“If you can call this hotel a home, yeah.”

“Then sit down and compose yourself. Take a few deep breaths.”

“I’m next on Little Debby’s hit list. I’m not going to have any breath to spare.”

“Art, I have to run now. Try and calm down. You’ll live longer.”

“Fat chance,” Art said, then hung up.

Maren Gustav got a call from Mark Bernstein. She listened carefully, asked some questions, then hung up.

Her secretary came in. “Have you heard?”

Maren held up a hand. “I have heard, so you don’t get to tell me the story.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to think about it before I do anything. If anybody else calls, tell them I’ve already heard the news and, if it’s a reporter, that I have no comment at this time.”

“That’s pretty ballsy,” the woman said.

“It’s the truth,” Maren said, “all of it.” She made shooing motions, and the woman went back to her desk. A moment later she buzzed Maren.

Maren picked up. “Was I not clear?”

“It’s Stone Barrington, and he didn’t ask if you’ve heard.”

“Ah.” She picked up the phone. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

“I figured you had,” Stone said. “I was calling for a different reason.”

“Pray tell, what is that?”

“I hear that Little Debby’s alibi was that she was in New York at the time of the killing. I thought that might necessitate a trip to our city by the nation’s chief investigative officer.”

“I like the way you think,” she said.

“I like that you like the way I think. It will make your expense account look better if you just stay with me, rather than at the Carlyle.”

“More good thinking.” She looked at her watch. “I have a helicopter at my disposal, now, you know.”

“I rather thought you did.”

“I can be scratching on your door by six o’clock.”

“I love that sound,” Stone said. “What would you like to dine on?”

“You,” she said.

“I hope your phone isn’t tapped.”

“Trust me, it’s not.”

“We’ll dine in then.”

“Oh, yes.”

Maren Gustav’s helicopter ran a little late, and Fred was announcing dinner as Stone greeted her. “Sorry, I got held up at the office,” she said.

“You’re just in time. Dinner’s ready. Can you dine without a drink first?”

“I’m as hungry as a tigress,” she said, as Stone seated her.

“I hope you like foie gras,” he said.

“You can still get it in New York?”

“I expect them to ban it every time I think about it, so I try not to think about it.”

Fred set two plates of perfectly seared foie gras before them, and they made all the right noises as they ate.

When they had finished the sauternes served with the first course, Fred came in with a platter and presented a thick porterhouse steak, then set it on the sideboard and carved it perfectly.

They made the correct sounds again, then finished their cabernet slowly.

“You were right about Little Debby’s alibi,” Maren said. “She’s in New York.”

“I’m sorry to hear that I was right,” Stone replied.

“But do you know what she did before she left the federal building in D.C.?”

“I don’t know. Used the ladies’ room?”

“Do you know what else she did?”

“Pass.”

“She took the elevator down to the basement.”

“Shocking!” Stone said.

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Do you know what’s in the basement?”

“Cells?”

“A few holding cells, but what else?”

“The coffee machine?”

“The evidence locker.”

Stone sipped his wine. “Locker?”

“Like, a big room, really, manned by one officer, who goes to lunch at the same time every day. Do you know what’s in an evidence locker?”

“I’ll take a stab. Evidence?”

“You’re being a smart-ass again.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what she did?”

“She let herself into the locker, apparently with her own key, then went shopping.”

“And what did she buy?”

“I should have said ‘shoplifting.’”

“Then what did she lift?”

“At this point, it’s all deduction,” Maren said. “The evidence locker has lots of guns that are presumed to have been used in committing crimes.”

“Ah, it all becomes clear,” Stone said. “She wants an untraceable weapon.”

“Or one that can’t be traced further than the evidence locker.”

“Where did you get all this information?”

“Secondhand from an informant who was in a holding cell, awaiting a court appearance, through a special agent who knows me. The evidence locker is not a room, exactly; it’s a chain-link cage with long, open shelves.”

“And your informant had a good view of all this?”

“He could see her through the chain link, facing him, and going through the firearms stash there.”

“And she found something to her liking?”

Maren nodded. “What appeared to be a .22-caliber automatic with a silencer screwed on: an assassin’s weapon, in short.”

“I hope he took photographs,” Stone said, “but I guess the inmates aren’t allowed cameras.”

“He managed to get his iPhone smuggled in by his girlfriend. He says he took half a dozen pics, and he wants to trade them for a kind word with the prosecutor about his suitability for a suspended sentence.”

“What’s he up for?”

“Burglary of a federal property. He’d normally get, maybe, five to seven years. He’s not a first offender.”

“So he wants to walk? Is it worth it?”

“To fry Little Debby’s ass? Are you kidding?”

“So, when do we get to see the pictures?”

“After his sentencing.”

“Not before?”

“That would be preferred, but he knows if he screws us we’ll get him on something else.”

“When’s he being sentenced?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Is the prosecutor on board?”

“He’d better be. The attorney general and I are tight.”

“Does he know that?”

“It’s being explained to him as we speak.”

Dessert arrived, a crème brûlée, served with a small glass of Grand Marnier. Afterward, Fred poured them a cognac and retreated.

“Would you like another tour of the master suite?” Stone asked.

“I’d like a tour of the bed,” she said.

They took their cognacs with them, and Stone conducted the tour personally.

Stone and Maren had sex, breakfast, sex, and a shower, in that order. As Stone walked out of his dressing room he heard Maren’s phone ring in her dressing room. The conversation was short and loud.

She walked into the bedroom.

“They’ve moved our guy to a holding cell in the courthouse,” she said. “He still won’t give us the photographs of Little Debby in the evidence locker, until the judge hands him a suspended sentence.”

“Can’t you just confiscate his cell phone?”

“He passed it back to someone who will be in the courtroom. I can’t search everybody. They’ll all have cell phones.”

“What was your decision?”

“I told the prosecutor to ask for a suspended sentence, and to sound good doing it.”